


At the Lounge

by tinkertortillion



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Awkard kisses, Comfort, First Kiss, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Iceberg Lounge, Jim is just hurt and tired, M/M, Oswald not over Mooney's death, to which Jim will not fucking stand for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkertortillion/pseuds/tinkertortillion
Summary: Four times that Jim is kissed at the Iceberg Lounge, and one time he does the kissing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this right after the season ended, so there might be some inconsistencies. Anyways, here you go!

_One_

  
  


The night is a profitable one, fresh customers pouring in on their glossy and leather dresswear, spilling champagne as they laugh openly, with the gangsters no longer speaking lowly on the corners, instead under the fake snowflakes and the blue crystal chandelier. A good day for business as far as weekdays go, the Penguin thinks, relishing every second as he sips from his glass, until he looks up and his smirk fades. 

  


The two come from the entrance with a stride that did not suggest they were here for a drink. His fingers involuntarily tighten on his drink, then relaxes and places the drink on the counter smoothly. He straightens his vest and plasters a smile on his face to greet Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock. “Well, I must say, you gentlemen have quite some nerve to appear here after our last encounter.” 

  


“Oswald! How have you been, little fella?” Harvey booms with a gusto too enthusiastic to be genuine. 

  


“Is there a reason why I should not kill you two right here?” Oswald says, grin still in place. 

  


“Is the fact that the whole GCPD knows we are here enough?” 

  


“Whom I have bought?” 

  


“Look, Penguin, we aren’t here to start trouble, all right? We come here in peace,” Bullock says, raising his hands in an innocent gesture. 

  


“Then what brings me such pleasure? I am quite busy at the moment.” 

  


“I suggest you make some time,” Jim says in a clipped tone before Harvey ushers him down with a small chorus of “easy, easy.” 

  


“Look, we just want a small favor. I know we did not exactly left off on ‘the right foot’”--Harvey says this as he makes quotation marks with his hands--”but everything went fine with you in the end”--Harvey nods to the block of ice by entrance that had the ex-forensic trapped. 

  


“Innocent lives are on the line,” Jim says, his face as passive as ever. 

  


Oswald turns to Jim. The man looks like he was surviving on coffee and vending machine food. His suit is a little too wide around his chest, around his collar, as if he’s been losing weight too fast. The sight of a man slowly fading away. 

  


Good, Penguin thought viciously. 

  


“No can do, gentlemen,” Oswald says gleefully. “My generosity has exhausted to zero with the police. I am sure you understand.” 

Harvey frowns. “Mooney used to do favors for us.” 

  


“Well, Fish isn’t here, is she?” Oswald responds, failing to hold back the bite in his tone. He can feel his temper slowly flaring. “She was killed by him!” His finger finds Jim, who looks pained. 

  


“I wasn’t myself.” 

  


“You chose to infect yourself! It was your choice,” Oswald says, still smiling, albeit viciously. “And that was not the first time you hurt me, Jim Gordon.” 

  


“This is important--” 

  


“Now if you don’t mind me, I really have other errands to attend to. Mr. Zsasz can escort you out the door--” 

  


Jim steps abruptly to Oswald’s personal space before he can step back. The Penguin’s henchmen reach for their guns but stop as Oswald raises his hand in halt. In a rough whisper, Jim says, “What do you want me to do?” 

  


Penguin eyes him up and down. It was not often that he saw this Jim, vulnerable and agreeable. He could make him jump off a second floor if he wanted to. It rushed Oswald with a sense of power. 

  


“I’m sorry, Jim,” Oswald says slowly. “Unless”--Jim’s eyes perk up--”there’s something you can do. I am a merciful man after all.” 

  


“What do you want?” Jim repeats. 

  


“It is nothing, really,” Oswald says with a gloating grin. “You just have to apologize. Right here. And confess how imbecilic it was of you trying to hurt me.” 

  


Jim’s jaw twitches so subtly only Oswald notices. The officer takes a step back to notice for the first time that all eyes are shamelessly on the three. 

  


People like Jim are easy enough to know. Oswald has worked around them for his life. Built on pride and a sense of entitlement, held through a false illusion for whatever they lived for. Money. Drugs. Power. 

  


Justice. 

  


“I am sorry,” Jim says, clearly enough that everyone in the room can hear. “For everything. It was imbecilic of me to mess with you.” 

  


Oswald grins. “And?” 

  


“And it won’t happen again.” For a reason, Jim is less reluctant that Oswald expected. How disappointing. 

  


“Very well, then. I will help you.” 

  


Harvey woops in joy and punches the air triumphantly, and takes Jim’s face between his two hands and gives him a kiss full on the mouth. “Yes!” he exclaims after leaving a startled Jim. 

  


Oswald raises his eyebrow. “But I cannot help you at the moment, I really am busy. Come back tomorrow before the Lounge opens. Then we can talk.” 

  


“Whatever you say, Cobblepot,” Harvey says, still smiling widely. 

  


“Now go take your romance outside,” Oswald says, waving them off. 

  


“Hey, I’ll let you know I am a full macho-man,” Harvey huffs, like Oswald expected. 

  


Curiously enough, Jim, as Oswald notices, looks down to his shoes at Oswald’s remark. A common sign of a person hiding something. Huh. 

  


It could be nothing. Then again, Oswald thinks with a smirk as he sips his drink and the two detectives are long gone, it could be something. 

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Homophobia and homophobic language.

_ Two _

 

Jim returns at the most crowded day on the lounge yet, hundreds of bodies swarming the place as Oswald watches the man writhing through them, a terrifying expression on his face as he stomped straight towards him. 

 

Oh. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Oswald says hurriedly to the man he was speaking to, slipping through in a panicked gait.

 

“OSWALD!” Jim yells, only making the short man walk faster.

 

He tries to get the attention of some of his men, but sees none in close sight between the sea of faces. Before Oswald can slip to a safer ambiance, a sharp tug sends him stumbling backward, pressing him to a wall. 

 

“You tricked me,” Jim growls, enough to make Penguin’s skin crawl despite himself. 

 

“I-I don’t--”

 

“Innocent people could have  _ died  _ if I hadn’t--” 

 

“ _ Congratulations,”  _ Oswald snarls. “Should I give you a medal? Are the countless you have not enough?”

 

The bags under Jim’s eyes had deepened. Stubble is growing on Jim’s chin and cheeks, and Jim’s blood-rimmed eyes would have looked glassy if not for the furious glare he is directing at the smaller man. 

 

“I should butcher you on the spot,” the detective hissed, close enough that Oswald feel his hot breath on his face.

 

Oswald chuckled slyly. “I think you should learn how to pick your battles, old friend.”

 

The tension breaks at the ear-splitting sound of feedback that forces the whole room to grip their ears in shock.

 

_ “Everyone on the Iceberg Lounge, remain where you are! Do not try to run!” _

 

Oswald scowls, looking at the entrance in rage. Jim looks at him with a smirk. “It looks like Bullock got to the police.”

 

Penguin barked out a laugh, losing himself from Jim’s grasp, “I am afraid that, for once, this has nothing to do with you.”

 

The bodiless voice continued,  _ “The party is over fellas, Gotham will take this impurity no longer!” _

The detective is looking up at the ceiling with his brows knit, visibly confused. The guests all in unison moan and hiss, glaring at the entrance with concern.

 

“I suggest you leave, James. I will deal with you later; there are more pressing matters at the moment,” Oswald heads towards the entrance, jaw set and hands fixed into fists. He looks through the corner of his eye as Jim notices for the first time the rainbow flags placed on the walls for tonight. 

 

For being a detective, Oswald thinks in irritation, he really is bad at reading a room.

 

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Oswald says to the men outside the club in the most honeyed voice he can muster. It isn’t only a couple of policemen. A mob of dozens had gathered up, holding signs saying phrases like “KEEP GOTHAM PURE” and, among less colloquial signposts, “NO FREAKS, NO GAYS.” The sight brought Oswald a nasty deja vu of seas of protesters against monsters, with him leading them on to drive the freaks away from the city.

 

Karma’s a bitch, indeed.

 

“We are gonna need you to stop this event, Mr. Cobblepot,” a policemen tries to say before a man on the crowd screams, “We don’t want any more freaks like you in Gotham!”

 

“I have licenses to have events until midnight without issue. What would the charges be?”

 

“Public indecency,” the other policeman said flatly. “Do you mind bringing us those licenses.”

 

“Of course.” Oswald had half a mind to butchering the whole mob as he walked towards his office. The GCPD knew better than to mess with him, so that meant that the citizens themselves must have organized the whole thing. Oswald was furious enough to burst, and he would get revenge after this.

 

He was walking back to the crowd as he noticed the crowd was quieter. A voice outside caught his attention in particular.

 

“--no actual right to do this.”

 

“Detective Gordon, if I were you, I would keep my big, fat nose out of this one.”

 

“Who sent you, hm?”

 

“This is none of your business, detective.”

 

“There is not enough ground to have this acted on. If I were you, I’d leave this alone.” Jim says quietly, in a way that shows he means business.

 

The two policemen looked at each other. “What about the mob?” one says.

 

“I cannot mess with a peaceful protest. But please do remind the crowd that if any of them turn violent I’ll have them on the GCPD jail right next to a killer and a crook before they can blink twice,” Jim says, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

 

He gives his back to the police officers and is met with the frozen figure of Oswald. His mouth thins and he frowns in bemusement. The Penguin figures out that his shock is written clearly on his face, and instinctively he veils it again, yet Jim still frowns.

 

“There is still business, I have to talk to you,” Jim says. Oswald can only nod, numbly following inside.   

 

As the two step inside, they are showered with applause. The lounge was cheering and whistling at the policeman, and even Oswald stepped aside and modestly clapped. This only makes Jim look even more bewildered. 

 

“Thanks for sticking up for us, officer,” a man booms at Jim before smacking a kiss on his cheek. Jim--Oswald cannot believe his eyes-- _ blushes  _ and mumbles something about “my duty” that gets lost as some guests swoop him to a conversation.

 

It takes a quarter of an hour before Jim manages to slip through the grateful crowd, waving them off with a grin, and the ambiance of the lounge is restored to a mild buzz of voices. The detective spots Oswald, who was sitting on the other side of his bar, and slides next to him. He opens his mouth, about to speak, when Oswald shoves a paper on the officer’s hand.  

 

He interrupts him, “This is the man’s real contact number. He leaves at ten on the Downtown Subway to Northern Street.”

 

Jim looks at the paper as if it was on Mandarin. “If this is another trick--”

 

“I give you my word,” Oswald says. “I know my word means nothing, but I mean it.”

 

Jim searches his face for a second. Oswald does not look away, face stoic. After a moment, Jim pockets the paper, and and stands.

 

“And Jim,” Oswald says. He extends his hand. “We’re even.”

 

Jim takes a moment before taking the hand, holding in it his own for longer than usual, then letting go and trotting outside the Lounge into what was most likely to be a long night.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take in mind, that this is not beta checked. Apart from that, enjoy :)

“He’s been there for hours.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Oswald murmured, not bothering to look up from the mountain of bills.

 

“That cop over there. Gordon,” the redhead says, sounding displeased.

 

That makes him look up. The man is sitting down on the bar, fiddling with a glass. If he looked disheveled and unhealthy before, well, it looked quite peachy compared to the way he looks now. He takes a large gulp out of the glass as if it is water, stifling his coughs after. Oswald wrinkles his nose at the sight.

 

“He looks like a before picture of a Rehab ad,” Ivy said, frowning, adding as an afterthought. “Kinda reminds me of my uncle.”

“How long until the lounge closes?” Oswald asks.

 

“Technically, we closed fifteen minutes ago, but the night has been slow, so…”

 

Jim’s looking at his phone now, searching for a number before pressing the phone to his ear. No one answers. It was oddly like seeing a lost puppy on the street. 

 

He doesn’t think it through as he slides off his table towards the bar. He glances around to see there was less than a dozen other people, most drunk or asleep.

“Can I help you, friend?” Oswald says, placing himself next to the detective. 

 

Jim slowly raises his gaze from the phone, confused. He looks at his surroundings, as if noticing for the first time where he was. “I don’t think you can,” he finally says matter-of-factly, taking another gulp from the drink.

 

Oswald takes the drink from his hand. “I think you have had enough.” Jim does not resist as the glass is slipped from his fingers. He looks uneasy, as if he does not know what to do with his hands, or where to look. Oswald licks his lips, for once at loss at what to do. Contrary to what he says, it is not as if him and Jim are close.

 

“Is everything alright?” Oswald finally says.

 

“Yes,” says Jim with a finality that clearly says he doesn’t want to pursue the topic further.

 

Okay, another strategy. “How did that case last week go?”

 

“We caught him before the attack, so all is fine,”Jim says, his usual tone of authority hinting itself. “Now there are bigger fishes to fry.”

 

“Really?” Penguin says politely, feigning interest. 

 

Jim looks up at him. ”What are you planning?”

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Oswald says sweetly. “Things have been very busy here at the lounge as it is. It is quite nice have such a quiet night for a change.”

 

Jim says nothing, looking down at his finished glass, running his fingers through his hair to place the locks back. “I’m sorry I killed Fish,” he says quietly. 

 

There it is. For days, he and Harvey have come to ask for information, pay favors, same as usual, yet Jim had seem detached, with good reason. The tension is still there. A quick flare of pain possesses Oswald for a wild second, and he feels like breaking his glass then and there, and sticking it up the detective’s throat. Then it’s over, a hollow emptiness inside him. 

 

“It wasn’t as if it was you,” Oswald says.

 

“But it was me,” Jim says forcefully, for once looking directly at Oswald. “I’m a monster. I took the virus by my own free will. How can I go on, working for the GCPD after that, after all I did? I should have just--” Jim gulps, let out a deep breath through his nose. “I don’t know.”

 

Oswald looks at Jim’s eyes. Once again, Oswald has the privilege of having a powerful man in front of him at such a vulnerable position. It is second-nature for Oswald to recognize these moments, to savour them, use them to his advantage until he has squeezed the last drop out. 

 

But he can’t bring himself to do it. 

 

Instead, Oswald says, “It will be alright, Jim.” 

 

The detective abandons the glass altogether, looking at Oswald as if deciding something. His face minutely relaxes, and he says in a rough voice Oswald almost misses, “Lee left me.”

 

_ Again?,  _ Oswald could not help to think, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Yet he knew that nurse and him were quite an item for a long time. He even remembers how he was there when the girl told him she was pregnant. A true tragedy out of a shakespearian play.

 

“While it is not my place,” Oswald starts slowly, “I cannot help but say that it is best for both of you.”

 

The man looks as if he was going to a dark place in his mind, and Oswald could see his hands twitching for the drink.

 

“Did I ever tell you of the first partner I had?” That seems to catch Jim’s attention. Oswald continued, “ On the weekends, they would sing on a half-empty bar. Horrible breath, I tell you. I don’t know how I put up with it.” Oswald smiled. “But I did. In the end, it did not work out.” He ended up killing him, but Jim does not need to know that.

 

He takes a deep breath. “My point is, we need to let people go if we know they are not happy.”

 

The neutral pronouns fooled no one, Oswald knows, yet he cannot help himself. In Gotham, you never know who doesn’t care and who’ll start a witch hunt, as Oswald is well too aware. Jim looks at Oswald so intently that it makes him uncomfortable, and in an instant the old Jim is back, stern and untouchable. “You’re right,” Jim said shortly, straightening his collar. “And you’re partner sounded like a catch.”

 

Oswald snorted. “They weren’t, but I appreciate the sentiment. Apart from that, how is police life suiting you after the incident?”

 

They fall into a small trance, speaking easily as breathing, and it surprises both of them. Before Oswald can think well of it, his mouth slips into his older days, how he became Mooney’s lap dog, his father, his life as a mayor. Jim in turn speaks of the military, and his father, who he seemed to adore so much, and recent cases. In both sides, some information was courteously omitted. Before he can help himself, Oswald begins to smile genuinely, make jokes. And Jim, to Oswald’s delight, laughs at them.

 

“I have a picture of Bullock with a ponytail,” Oswald says.

 

Jim raises his eyebrows. “How long have you known Bullock?”

 

“Not as long as you would think,” Oswald grins even wider.

 

Jim laughs. It is a rich, throaty laugh, and it makes Oswald feel high with bubbling happiness. It makes him grin despite of himself. 

 

“You cannot tell me this without showing it to me,” he says between chuckles.

 

Oswald stands, a sort of golden giddiness he has not met since.

 

Since…

 

The glacier is still on the middle of the lounge. The man inside looks down at him. For a reason, the sight brings him a dash of annoyance.

 

“Jim,” Oswald says. He waits to see the man looking back at him. “Mooney...was a mentor to me.” Jim stiffened, as if waiting for the lash. “I also hurt her, and she hurt me too. And this city does not give much time to mourn. So let’s start a new page, shall we?”

 

With that, the smaller man pats the detective man’s in a facade of camaraderie and turns around, making a beeline for his memoirs, where he is quite sure that picture of Harvey is on. He keeps it just in case. It will probably serve as an excellent source of blackmail.

 

“I never meant to hurt you,”

 

Oswald freezes in his limping gait. Time stops against his will, and a wave of a feeling alien to him washes through him. The second is gone, and he continues to walk.

 

This...has been pleasant, Oswald thinks awkwardly. As he finds the photo and walks toward the bar, he cannot help but think how he might tell Jim he is welcome to come back between cases. Just to let him know, of course, Oswald is a busy man. He may even invite him to next week’s masquerade if he can slip through the reserved listings--

 

A woman with perfectly curled hair and red lipstick sits next to Jim, and she laughs lowly at whatever Jim has just said. They speak for a while longer, and it is only when she slowly presses her lips on his that Oswald notices that he is openly staring. He straightens his suit, refines his hair, and walks away from the bar, vision going red.

 

“Do you want to close the bar now?” Ivy says as he passes her.

 

“Wait until Gordon and his lady friend leaves, then tell Frieda to close. You go to sleep,” Oswald responds, and closes the door of his office a little too loudly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before Ivy decided to leave. It was much happier times. *sigh*


	4. Four

In the half-lit Iceberg Lounge, the King of Gotham sits, pouring himself a drink too that is too strong and cheap, something he would never drink with anyone near. He hears footsteps echoing on the club, getting nearer.

 

“The Iceberg Lounge is  _ closed _ ,” he snarls before recognizing the figure. “Hi,” he says, quieter. 

 

“Hi,” Jim says.

 

He is not wearing his uniform suit and badge. Instead, he has a blue button down and worn-down jeans. It was strange, like seeing Zsasz with hair. 

 

“How are you?” Jim says.

 

Oswald glares at him warningly. “I am fine.”

 

Silence. It stretches on, filling the room like noise never can, tense and brimming. Jim sits down, looking patiently as Oswald drinks, steadily avoids his gaze, fiddles with the glass. Jim is the first to speak.

 

“How long has it been?”

 

Oswald cannot help but to snort. As if he cares. “Three years.”

 

“And there’s no one..?”

 

“Just me,” Oswald replies, still looking at his cup, blinking rapidly.

 

If he knows one thing for damn sure is that he was not going to start crying in front of Jim fucking Gordon. He automatically straightens up and pours himself more from the bottle, ignoring the dark, bubbling heat boiling on his stomach.

 

“Only you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A beat. “It’s a shame, I didn’t meet’--”

 

“What would Harvey think if he knew you were here, hm?” Oswald snaps, finally meeting Jim’s eyes. Jim’s mouth thins. “Or what would the GCPD think,  _ hm? ‘ _ Benevolent Officer Jim Gordon Frequenting the Infamous Iceberg Lounge’ Imagine that for a headline.” He lets out a hollow cackle. “I would definitely read that newspaper!” he says with hollow glee. “But of course dear old Gordon would never let that happen, so tell me Jim, why are you here? YOU HAVE MADE IT OBVIOUS WE AREN’T FRIENDS, SO WHY ARE YOU HERE?”

 

He does not remember rising from his chair, or curling his hand on the half-empty bottle as a weapon. He is angry,  _ furious _ , and it takes him a flash of a second to realize that it’s Jim, he loathes him with a boiling passion, yet, unlike his other loath instincts to others, he does not have the itch to break the glass bottle and sinking it on his throat.

 

Jim does not even flinch. “I miss my mother too.”

 

Like an off switch, Oswald lowers the bottle, descending to his seat.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, beginning to stand. “I should--”

 

“No, no, I’m--it’s okay.” He feels like an idiot.”I--it’s--how is your case going?” Oswald says, trying not to blush as he sees Jim smirk.

 

It’s well past midnight when they notice the time, and they push it aside as they continue to talk barely above whispers over the quiet lounge. Again, it is too easy, and before he knows what is happening the detective is laughing again at some horrible joke he made himself and it was so terrible Oswald cannot help but join in and for the first time he entertains the idea, the idea of him and Jim, and what is terrifying is how he embraces the thought like a lost friend.

 

Oswald likes to think that he is reasonable in business, yet he admits he can be impulsive when it comes to action. A flaw, a mistake that he cannot help to make, over and over.

 

So when the conversation comes to an end, and they sit there, examining each other’s faces, Oswald convinces himself that it is not a bad idea as he tentatively puts a hand on the back of Jim’s neck, and closes in to the detective until both their lips meet. So he does.

 

Immediately, Oswald knows something is wrong. Two seconds pass and Jim does not move a muscle, stiff as a statue. Deep horror sinks into Oswald’s veins so fast it makes him feel fuzzy. Slowly, he moves his hand away from Jim’s neck and leans back enough to search Jim’s face. The rugged man looked as apathetic as ever, no emotion betraying his face, the face of a trained military man. 

 

Abruptly, Jim stands up, and Oswald straightens, trying to veil his escalating panic. The worst part is that the detective leaves with not uttering a single word, merely a long, unreadable, glance towards the smaller man, and then, he walks away.

 

It is not until he hears the familiar  _ click  _ of the entrance door shutting that Oswald promptly breaks every visible glass bottle on the room.

 


End file.
